


Bend and Break

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Series: Bread and Circuses [3]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Underfell, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Fellcest - Freeform, Fontcest, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sans is arrested on false pretences, and Papyrus has to balance preserving his hard-earned reputation against the very real possibility that his brother might just dust in jail before he can get the charges revoked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another entry in the universe originally conceived by 0neType. It would help to read both 'Hold and Release' and 'Kneel and Obey' first for some of the context in the Fellbros relationship, but you can probably get by without if you don't mind missing some of the nuances.

Sans hasn't been home for more than five minutes before the front door rattles with an urgent knock. He groans into the cushions of the couch, briefly entertaining the temptation to just continue lying in his face-down sprawl and pretending not to be home, but there's every chance the visitor is on Guard business and his brother will be pissed if Sans misses an important message out of laziness.

Messages for the Captain are supposed to be sent to the main guard house in town, but Papyrus is almost never there. One of the first and most valuable pieces of advice Undyne imparted to him when he first usurped her job (after the initial sting of bitterness faded, of course) was that he should never keep a schedule. As Captain of the Guard, every monster in the Underground is your enemy, and you never want to stick to a routine that would make you easy to track and ambush. Papyrus has taken that on board wholeheartedly, and even Sans isn't privy to his brother's movements throughout the day. The only consistency is his home-coming. He never misses dinner with his brother, and so anything urgent tends to be delivered to their house instead of the barracks.

He hauls himself up, schooling his expression into its usual surly scowl, and stomps over to the door. He hasn't even had the time to take his sneakers off, damnit. If it turns out to be Doggo asking to swap shifts again, Sans is going to turn him blue and throw him into a snowdrift.

He opens the door, not entirely surprised to see two heavily armoured guards standing on the stoop, looking collectively like an impassable wall of sharp, poky metal. Sans's frown deepens; he doesn't keep very close tabs on his brother's underlings, but he's pretty sure he's never seen these two before. There's an acrid layer of soot burnishing their armour, and the smoky scent tells him they must be visitors all the way from Hotland, or at least have spent a considerable amount of time there before coming here.

“What?” he asks, bracing instinctively. In his experience, most of the Guards are arrogant assholes who only barely tolerate him because of his brother, but more than that, if these two have gone to the trouble of carrying news from the other side of the Underground, chances are it's dire. Shit. 

He hopes his brother isn't going to have to head another hunting party. Last time he was gone for over a week, tracking a murderer through the dirty streets of New Home, and when he'd finally returned home he'd seemed strangely subdued and refused to tell Sans any of the details. Rumour had it, the killer had been both deranged and creative in his work, and Papyrus had needed to inspect all the crime scenes personally. His brother had slept even less than usual for a long time after that.

What he doesn't expect is for the Guards to give him a discomfortingly invasive once-over. “Sans the skeleton?”

Sans starts. “Y-yeah?”

The guard on the left is a reptile of some kind. Sans can see very little of him besides his slitted eyes that blink horizontally rather than vertically, and the tip of a snout that occasionally flicks out a wriggling, forked tongue. “This is your house?”

“Obviously,” he snaps, nerves instinctively bringing out an edge in his voice that does its best to sound intimidating. For one awful moment, he wonders if they're here to tell him some sort of awful news about his brother...but that would be stupid. If his brother were dead, he'd know by the rocks thrown through his window and vandals kicking down his door. He'd know it in his _soul_. They Guard wouldn't make an effort to deliver the news in person, unless it was his replacement coming with a jar full of dust to spit in just to see Sans's reaction.

The second guard is avian, its helmet modified to encase most of its beak and provide the illusion of teeth around its maw. Its mouth isn't very mobile, but he imagines he can hear a smirk in its voice. “Royal records show no evidence of purchase for the title, or transfer of the property into your possession. By right of law, this building belongs to the Royal Family, and you are trespassing.”

Sans gapes. It takes him the better part of a minute just to find his voice. “That is the biggest load of bullshit I have ever heard in my life.”

As far as he knows, there are no property titles or deeds in the Underground. Territory is claimed by right of power. Sometimes it's bartered away, deals are made, buildings exchange hands, especially in New Home, but out here in Snowdin there's never been any such thing. 

Besides, the place had been one of Gaster's safe-houses, so if there ever was a way to legally acquire such things, he's sure the old bastard would have done so. He'd had the means and the power to make it happen.

“You're under arrest,” the guard continues as if he hadn't spoken. “For misappropriation of Royal land and occupation of property under false pretences.”

Sans is about to deliver a blistering serve of outrage when he feels an alarming tug in his chest. He looks down. His soul has been turned green.

For the first time in a long time, Sans suddenly feels very, very afraid. 

“No, fuck-!” He can't move. His feet are planted to the floor, and the force of the magic makes it hard to look away from the Avian Guard whose magic holds him trapped. Sans's thoughts are an unhelpful tempest of panic. Shit, how do you fight green again? He's gotten so good at dodging or just avoiding confrontation all together that it's been forever since anyone's actually caught him like this. He hasn't had to fight, not since Papyrus took over.

But the Guards know exactly what they're doing. Once he's frozen, the lizard guard slips past him, surprisingly agile despite the bulk of its armour. It slithers behind him, and Sans can't figure out how to split his attention in two directions. The magic only lets him choose one.

“Hey!” The lizard is reaching for his neck. Sans gasps, but frantically conjures a wave of bones to spiral towards the bird, hoping to disrupt the green. It takes the hit with a grunt, its concentration unwavering, and Sans despairs; his attacks only do one damage. Even with multiple hits, it'll take him a long time to wear his opponent down. 

“Stop-!” He feels a tug at his throat. It's taken off his collar, the one Boss gave him, and he feels suddenly vulnerable. He still can't turn. He can't lift his arms to fight it. He can barely manage to tilt his head to see it negligently tossing the collar aside and bringing something else into his field of vision that makes him panic for real. 

“No, no, fuck, no, don't-!” It's holding a very different sort of collar, but one that Sans recognises instantly even if it's been a while since he's seen one in practice. The alloys used to craft an anti-magic shackle give the metal a distinctive purple sheen.

His head is full of the screaming of the void, and he can feel reality ripple as his Blasters try to force their way out, but he's not fast enough. The new collar slides around his neck, the metal biting cold and far heavier than he's used to, and...

...everything...

...slows and turns muddy, his sight blurring and bones aching. He lets out a whine, slowly sinking to his knees, his strength failing him.

Anti-magic shackles have fallen out of common use, because even by the standards of the Guard, they're cruel. Monsters are made of magic. A restraint that disrupts their very being is devastating, even deadly, particularly for those whose bodies rely on it to hold together. 

Like skeletons.

“Got him.” the lizard guard mutters, hooking its hands beneath Sans's armpits and trying unsuccessfully to haul him upright. Sans gasps at the touch. Even if it's not excessively rough, his bones feel brittle, like he's about to break apart. His can't seem to get his legs under him. They don't want to support his weight, so the guard is left to carry most of it.

“Easy,” the other guard agrees, releasing the green on Sans's soul, but at this point it's only a distant comfort. He still couldn't run if he tried. 

The collar needs to come off. He needs it OFF. Sans clumsily tries to lift a hand, looking for a latch or a clasp, but it's shaking so badly all the phalanges are clacking together, clearly broadcasting the attempt. The avian guard scoffs, stepping forward to capture his wrists and ignoring the wail Sans makes, his body twitching weakly, the pressure almost unbearable. It pulls out a much more mundane set of manacles from its belt and swiftly cuffs Sans's wrists. It's the sheer weight of the chain that forces his arms back down. It feels like if he fights too hard, his hands are just going to fall off. 

“Let's go before the Captain shows up,” the lizard says, and for the first time Sans detects something like unease in its manner. Of course! There's was no way they can be doing this under his brother's order. All he needs to do is stall long enough for Papyrus to find him and he'll set these two assholes straight if he doesn't simply dust them on sight. 

Unfortunately, that's far easier said than done, because everything from his eyesight to his speech relies on the source of his magic. He's half-blind as they shove him out the door, unable to make out any distinct shapes in the hazy surroundings of snow and shadowed trees. He can't tell if there's anyone around to witness his arrest, and any sound he makes comes out garbled distorted, incomprehensible even to his own ears. It's not even very loud. He can't make himself heard, and it's terrifying as he finds himself being inexorably herded away from the town, towards the dangerous caves of Waterfall.

* * *

Papyrus carefully approaches his house, his boots crunching the snow with a minimum of sound. The front door is open. Warm light from the interior is spilling out onto the doorstep, but there's no movement from within. He steps carefully around the cluster of footprints in front of the door. He'll examine those in a minute. His first priority is to peer inside, looking for any trace of his brother who should be home by now and who even in his worst fits of laziness would never be stupid enough to leave their door flung wide like that.

He almost wishes that were the most likely explanation. The alternatives are much more harrowing.

He steps inside, his eyelights sweeping over every detail. He's looking for signs of violence, he's looking for...dust. He's looking for dust, but thankfully there's none to be found. Only a forlorn loop of leather sprawling in the shadow of the couch. He steps towards it, each movement precise and controlled as he bends and picks it up, running his claws over its supple length. The buckle is undone, which at least suggests Sans's neck was intact when it was removed. Papyrus folds it carefully and tucks it into his armour, not allowing himself to think about what it signifies for this specific piece of his brother's attire to have been left behind. 

Instinct rather than evidence tells him the house is empty even without checking the rest of the rooms. There's no trace of anything else out of place, but the room has gone cold, all of its ambient heat having escaped through the door. Whatever took place, he's missed it by at least half an hour.

 _Too long_ , he thinks urgently. _Far too long._

He retraces his steps back through the door, this time focusing on the furrows on the ground outside. It's a puzzle, of sorts, and one he's well-versed in after serving so many years in Snowdin. The prints are enough to tell him that he's dealing with a small force, probably no more than two, but that his opponents are large and heavy enough to have cut a broad swath through the snow. He can't spot Sans's footprints amidst the tracks, so either he wasn't walking under his own power, or they've been lost beneath the bulkier strides of his assailants. 

The only other fact he can be sure of is that whoever the intruders were, they were extremely single minded. Their tracks lead in a single, straight line towards the house, and follow exactly the same path back, heading away from town and deeper into the forest. No doubt they're looking to escape his territory as quickly as possible. If they can make it to Waterfall, there won't be any solid tracks to follow.

He has to move.

But at the same time, he can't afford to run after his brother. He can't let fear and concern drive him, not only because his assailants might just be attempting to bait him into an ambush, but because the only thing worse than his brother being taken would be for his enemy to know just how valuable that leverage could be. Both their lives will be forfeit if that truth comes out. No one can know. 

He only hopes they don't _already_ know. There may be other reasons for his brother to have been taken...he can't know for sure, yet, and he isn't going to let himself brood on the possibilities when his brother is still missing. Finding him comes first.

Papyrus pauses briefly, torn by indecision. If he runs, if he uses all possible speed...he might beat them to Waterfall. He likely knows the forest better than his enemy. He knows all the secret paths. He could try and cut them off, but if he's not fast enough they might still elude him, and all it will take is a single witness to gossip about the event in town and it might as well be blood in the water for all the thirsty predators waiting for him to show a moment of weakness.

The only possible alternative is...

He can't let himself hesitate. He is the Great and Terrible Papyrus, and he will not be defeated by scoundrels cowardly enough to attack him through his brother. 

With difficulty, he steps away from the tracks and walks in completely the opposite direction. He's never tried this on his own before, but he'll have to make it work. There hasn't been much time to practice, but he can't afford failure. There's only one way to ensure his best possible chance of getting to Waterfall before his quarry eludes him.

Sans has shown him a shortcut.

* * *

The location he's looking for is just beyond the Library, nestled out of sight behind the building. Papyrus walks down the street with his head high and his stride even and measured. He doesn't rush, but thankfully his natural pace is economically swift. Citizens glance at him, but only out of wary habit. They keep their heads down. No one dares approach him, or question what he might be doing. As soon as he's unobserved, Papyrus ducks into the alley and slows, concentrating furiously and reaching outwards with just a careful thread of his magic. 

He had never thought much to question the odd way his brother could move around the town. Not until the day Sans nervously took him far out into the woods, well away from town, and showed Papyrus what it meant whenever he said he was taking a shortcut. 

Papyrus was dumbstruck. Sans's ability was a rare piece of magic, and an extremely powerful one. He thought back through all the times when knowing of it would have simplified his life enormously, though Sans was quick to assure him that wasn't so simple. There were rules and limitations. The ability came at a cost.

“But why didn't you tell me?” Papyrus had railed, feeling distinctly affronted that Sans had kept something so significant from him.

Sans turned away, hiding his expression. “I thought you'd send me to go kill Undyne in her sleep. Didn't think that would end well for anyone.”

Papyrus let it go, because it was an unpleasant truth that at one time, there'd been so little trust in their relationship that Sans could have believed Papyrus would do that. Despite himself, Papyrus wasn't entirely sure Sans's expectation would have been wrong. 

He might have asked. At the very least, he would have considered it. He convinced himself it didn't matter; it was enough that Sans trusted him now.

Sans wanted to keep him safe. He couldn't show Papyrus how to make the shortcuts, apparently, but he could show his brother how to find them. There were places that Sans used frequently, where he'd worn down the fabric of reality, creating semi-stable passages; secret tunnels to be used in case of emergencies. There was one around the side of their house that went to Sans's sentry station, though apparently that one was formed mostly out of laziness. There was another from Sans's room that went to their basement – Papyrus hadn't even known they had a basement! – but Sans had told him that no one could break into it, so it was a place to hide if the house ever became unsafe. 

The one for Waterfall is behind the Library, and Papyrus struggles to tune his senses towards the elusive feeling of space folded in on itself. A shadow. A ripple. A door. 

For a long minute, he can't find it. It's easy when Sans shows him where to look, when his brother's hand can reach out and nearly catch the edge of something existing impossibly in empty air, peeling it back. In fact, apparently the only reason Papyrus can even attempt this is because their magic has mingled enough, Sans had confessed with a bit of embarrassment. Their intimacy has wrought irreversible changes on both their souls – an outcome Papyrus rarely allows himself to muse on.

(It frustrates him more than he cares to admit that, despite everything, Sans's HP still hasn't shifted an inch, and he doesn't know _why_.)

He catches sight of something in the periphery of his vision, but the moment he turns to look it's gone again. He has to bite back his scream of frustration and a more harrowing stab of fear, because he's never done this alone before, and if he can't manage it despite all of Sans's tutoring then he may just have lost any chance of finding his brother. He forces himself to take a breath, one hand absently resting over his ribcage as he searches for the little threads of Sans's magic that have woven their way into the tapestry of his soul. He tries to immerse himself in that feeling of icy blue beneath bright, anxious red, of lopsided smirks and scathing insults and the weight of eyes on his back, watching and protecting from harm.

There! It's nothing more than a little shimmer, but Papyrus is close enough to claw at it, trying to scratch it open. His fingers catch briefly on something, and it's enough to compel him to leap inexpertly and awkwardly through the narrow impression of a portal distorting the space before him--

\--only to be spat out on his tail-bone on a cold, damp cave floor, feeling dizzy and nauseous and GOD DAMNIT HE HATES THESE SHORTCUTS.

Thankfully there's no one around to witness his inelegant landing, so he can take a minute to gather himself and shake off the harrowing feeling of stepping through the door. He never catches more than a glimpse of the space in-between, and after the first few attempts he usually tries to keep his eyes shut because whatever exists there is enough to leave him cold and sick and empty. 

(He's amazed that his brother can use the shortcuts so frequently and so casually. He's no longer so surprised at the violence of his brother's nightmares. When he had suggested a connection between these two concepts, though, Sans had shaken his head.

“It's complicated,” he'd said with a distant, fraught expression that let Papyrus know he wouldn't explain any further than that.)

When he can stand again, he brushes himself off and quickly surveys the area, trying to orient himself. He doesn't know Waterfall well. It's always been Undyne's territory, and even now he feels uncomfortable; like an intruder. He dons his fiercest expression, squaring his shoulders and letting just a little of his magical aura seep through. It should be enough to deter all but the most dedicated of assailants, and it's a very satisfying feeling. Papyrus is in complete control of himself at all times, of course, but basking in his own power is invigorating, especially when he's steeled for a confrontation. The LOVE in his soul heats and swells at the promise of violence.

There are flickers of movement in the shadows, but they're only evidence of lesser monsters knowing well enough to get the hell out of his way as he stalks down the tunnel he's recognised as leading towards the sentry stations that border the two districts of Waterfall and Snowdin. Even from a distance he can see the lumbering form of Greater Dog curled up behind the too-small counter, which is an unexpected stroke of luck. The dog is powerful enough to actually be an asset in a fight, as well as too stupid to question orders; the perfect kind of follower. Plus, he's proven himself to be sufficiently protective enough of Sans to have earned Papyrus's grudging appreciation. 

Greater Dog snaps to attention the moment he catches Papyrus's scent, growling a formal greeting to perhaps to cover the sound of cards being swiftly pushed off the table. For once, Papyrus doesn't care about the dereliction of duty. 

“No one has passed through today?” he asks.

Greater Dog shakes his head, and Papyrus allows himself a dark, dangerous smirk. He's done it. He's gotten ahead of his enemy. They won't have any opportunity to escape. 

“Come with me,” he orders with a snap of his fingers to encourage promptness. “We're going for a walk.”

It's a code word, distinct to the guards of Snowdin whose quirks Papyrus has come to know best. Greater Dog beams at him, and it's a terrifying sort of smile with the way his stained teeth are bared and his muzzle is gritty with traces of dust. Normally the sight makes Papyrus roll his eyes in irritation. None of the dogs are especially hygienic, and he almost wants to give a lecture about proper presentation and the dignity of the guard, but in this instance he hopes the fearsome visage encourages an appropriate level of horror in their quarry.

The armour creaks and groans as Greater Dog climbs to its feet, heavy footfalls quaking the ground. On a true hunt, Papyrus would order the dog out of its plate mail for greater speed and silence, but in this instance he doesn't care for subtlety. Whoever took his brother isn't going to be granted the mercy of a swift or quiet death. 

With some reluctance, he pulls out the collar and shows it to his subordinate. Greater Dog regards it with confusion at first, and then flattens his ears when he recognises it.

“Smell it,” Papyrus directs grimly. “We're looking for whoever touched it besides myself and Sans. They should be heading this way from Snowdin.”

Greater Dog might not be as adept as Dogamy and Dogaressa, but all the dogs have a much sharper scent than most monsters. Greater Dog bends down, his nose brushing against the leather as he inhales deeply. Papyrus bites back a complaint, holding it steady until the dog's ears prick back up with a lurch of resolve. He turns his head towards the end of the tunnel, putting his face to the breeze, and with a yip of excitement he bounds away towards the bright glimmer of light reflecting off snow. 

Papyrus tucks the collar away again and follows at a more stately but equally swift pace. It doesn't take long before he hears an eerie howl announcing Greater Dog's successful detection of their quarry's trail. Papyrus has worked alongside the Canine Unit long enough to know what that means.

 _They're close_. He lengthens his stride, soul pounding in his ribs with anticipation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: This chapter contains a SERIOUS SKELETON INJURY. This is definitely the ‘Break’ part of Bend and Break, so uh, if you’re squicked by that you may wish to opt out here. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.

The Avian guard has a stern grip on the short length of chain between the manacles on his wrists, and Sans is forced to stumble along or risk having his arms pulled out of their sockets. It feels like the magical ligaments that keep his bones together are barely holding on, and given the guard’s brutish temperament and hostile intent, he isn’t entirely sure what would happen to his HP if it snapped. He’s forced to keep up with his captor’s longer, more purposeful strides, barely able to keep his balance through the churned path of snow.

His only consolation is that their forceful pace betrays how nervous they must be. By now his brother will have found the empty house. He’ll know. He’ll be on their trail. He’s coming. Sans just has to hold out until then.

As if to answer his prayers, a howl pierces the dangerous quiet of the forest, and both guardsmen freeze. It’s hard to ignore a warning when you hear one. That sound used to freeze Sans cold, but now it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. The way it echoes through the trees makes it impossible to tell where it’s coming from, but it’s definitely close.

_You’re so fucked_ , he thinks, viciously and victoriously, trying to aim a sneer at where he approximates the Avian’s head to be. He can still hardly see worth a damn, but he likes to think his expression gets the message across.

“Keep moving,” the lizard hisses, and the pace begins again, even more hurried than before. Sans is tempted to put up more of a fight, to delay them as much as possible, but it would be extremely unfortunate if they suddenly decided their best chance was to dust their burden and make a run for it so he goes along meekly, huffing in discomfort as his wrists chafe against the restrains.

They don’t even make it to the end of the treeline where the forest opens and the cavern narrows towards Waterfall before they’re stopped again, the Lizard in front grinding to a tense halt.

“ _Shit_ ,” Sans hears it growl, and his soul leaps in his chest.

Most of the landscape is a blurry mess of white snow and shadowy trees, but right in front of them, heading closer with measured, stalking steps, is a bright splash of red that Sans would recognise anywhere. He tries to call out, but the collar is still distorting his magic, and all that issues from his throat is a garbled whine that he’s not sure is even loud enough to carry.

“Steady,” the Avian mutters, dragging Sans in front of itself as if using him as a shield against Papyrus’s wrath. Well, it probably wasn’t a completely stupid idea. Just a futile one. “We have our orders.”

The Lizard takes a galvanising breath. “Right.”

Shoulders squared and feigning an impressive level of composure, the Lizard strides forward to meet Papyrus, who also slows his approach. Sans quints, trying to make out the details. The two stop a wary distance from each other, but even from his own position Sans can feel the LOVE roiling off his brother. It makes his soul shiver in both anticipation and dread.

Rather than launching into a confrontation, however, the Lizard salutes sharply. “Captain.”

“Guardsman,” Papyrus replies, his voice deceptively soft. That tone never promises anything good. “What do you think you’re doing in _my_ territory, making off with _my_ property?”

Papyrus’s tone is so deadly even Sans feels the need to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Both his captors must be made of sterner stuff, because neither of them so much as flinch.

“Our orders come directly from the Crown,” the Lizard says, reaching into his armour with slow, non-threatening movements, but Sans still baulks even if Papyrus doesn’t. Sans can’t make out exactly what it is that he takes out, but it can’t be a weapon or he’d be dead already. There’s a slight rustle that sounds like paper as he holds it out towards Papyrus. “Sans the skeleton is under arrest for theft and trespassing.”

There’s an ominous pause, and Sans dearly wishes he could see his brother’s expression. Surely it must be as incredulous as Sans’s own had been. Later, when this bullshit is sorted, he’s looking forward to having a few (dozen) drinks and being able to laugh over this, but at the moment it’s more infuriating than amusing.

Papyrus moves forward, his strides sharp and precise, and with a violent swipe of movement he snatches the paper out of the Lizard’s hand and takes a moment to peruse it. This time the Lizard has the good grace to cower back a little. Sans is almost annoyed that his brother is even entertaining this farce, but Papyrus takes his duties as Captain with utmost seriousness, and even if sometimes it would be easier to kill a subordinate than discipline them, Papyrus always tries to avoid unecessary death. He’s told Sans over and over how it’s a waste of resources after all the training and luck needed make it into the Royal Guard in the first place.

“Assuming this document is _legitimate_ , it should have come directly to me for attention,” Papyrus observes with a low, guttural snarl underlying his voice. “Snowdin is my province. All Guard matters go through _me_.”

“You can check with the Royal Court if you must, Captain. The order was issued directly from the Magistrate herself.” To their credit, the Lizard manages to keep most of the quaver from their voice, and still sounds appropriately deferential despite Papyrus’s barely-withheld fury. “Delegating the responsibility of an arrest is common procedure where there may be a conflict of interest-”

They halt abruptly, and there must be something in Papyrus’s expression that tells them they’ve overstepped. The air seems to tingle with the promise of dust, and Sans wonders if for once Papyrus is going to defy his own principles about killing after all.

“ _Do not_ lecture me on procedure,” Papyrus says quietly and the Lizard promptly falls to their knees in clear subjugation. Sans can seem crimson flickers that betray the fearsome glow of his brother’s eyelights. “I am _Captain_ of the Royal Guard. There is no conflict between myself and my duty.”

The Avian guard is also trembling behind him, which would be a hell of a lot more gratifying if Sans weren’t also.  He feels a tight tug in his ribcage, and barely realises his soul has been turned blue before he’s being yanked harshly towards his brother. He yelps in surprise, struggling on instinct before common sense tells him to be still. He knows he should be relieved to be back at his brother’s side, but frankly the aura he’s broadcasting and the tone of his voice is downright terrifying. Sans doesn’t need to feign his trepidation.

Worse, he even at this distance he can’t make out his brother’s expression. Usually they have a whole language of silent signals for when they’re interacting in public. Papyrus gives him cues with a flick of his eyelights or a twitch of his jaw, and Sans knows to either scowl and snark belligerently to give his brother a blatant target for his ire, or to cower and submit to encourage others to do the same. Papyrus will broadcast his movements with plenty of warning so Sans can dodge with a mocking grin, or feign taking a blow so it looks more severe than it really is.

Sans stares at his brother and sees nothing but indistinct shapes of colour. He can’t read Papyrus, not even through his soul which is screaming of nothing but rage and violence and the need to lash out, and as far as Sans knows his brother’s never been on the receiving end of one of the anti-magic collars. He won’t know that Sans isn’t picking up his signals and has absolutely no idea of what to expect.

He tries to burble a warning only to have his soul squeezed tightly, choking off his plea.

Papyrus is still taking to the guards, still focused on making them yield before the might of his authority and reputation. “The Magistrate may not be aware of how business is conducted in Snowdin, but I assure you I do not grant leniency to anyone, least of all my own brother.”

Sans knows enough to expect the blow is coming, but Papyrus moves so swiftly he isn’t ready for it, or perhaps it’s just that his own reflexes are molasses slow and clumsy. Papyrus lifts a hand, and normally there would have been enough warning for Sans to go lax, but instead in panic he braces instead, trying to lift his hands to block the incoming blow in a useless, stupid gesture.

It hits, too hard, and his body isn’t ready for it. Something cracks, and it knocks him senseless. He feels his HP dropping, falling into increasingly critical decimals. He hits the ground hard, face in the snow.

Somehow, he isn’t dead.

But.

Something feels terribly, horribly wrong. He struggles to lift his head, blinking rapidly, trying to figure out what the dark shape lying in the snow beside him is that’s blocking most of his vision. For a harrowing moment, he fears it might be his brother, but it’s too small for that. He stares longer, trying to place the oddly protruding shaft of bone and the venomous yellow stripes on dark fabric until his numb mind discerns that what he’s looking at is his own pelvis and legs, sprawled in the snow and definitely not where they should be.

The unnatural haft of bone is his own fractured spine, shorn off midway between his ribs and his hips.

His body is broken in half, cracked into two distinct pieces by his brother’s fearsome blow.

His first hysterical reaction would have been a ludicrous laugh, but then the shock fades enough for the pain to hit.

And Sans screams.

* * *

He's made a mistake. 

A horrible, harrowing mistake. Papyrus stares down at his brother trying to rationalise how just a moment ago Sans had been upright and fine, his soul safe in Papyrus's grip, and then--

A single blow, and his brother is lying in pieces in the snow, literally broken in half. The fracture looks devastating, but Sans is screaming far too loudly for him to be dead. The sound echoes brutally amongst the trees, leaving all present members of the guard frozen in an odd sort of stupor. It's impossible to tell who is the most surprised that Sans somehow isn't dust already.

He _should_ have died, but some miracle has kept his HP from shattering even as his body has, and Papyrus should feel grateful but all that he can do is stare at the clawed fist that nearly took his brother's life with such a negligent, thoughtless blow.

Papyrus has never made a mistake like this before. He could never afford to. Sans has always been fragile, even before his health reached the single digits. Unlike most monsters, Papyrus has never been able to revel in his levels of violence. Each time his power swells he works even harder to keep it suppressed, and he's always been so proud of his control, of how he can channel his intent to cause pain without harm. He's never had to second-guess himself because he knows in his soul he would never truly intend to do his brother harm.

It leaves him completely at a loss to explain what just happened, and his only saving grace is that both the unknown guards and Greater Dog are equally stunned. Likely none of them have ever seen a monster so readily dismembered before, or realise that for a skeleton it's a survivable injury. It can even be a harmless one; Papyrus remembers Sans playfully removing an arm and letting Papyrus shake the amputated limb like a rattle back when he'd been a baby-bones, but separating their bones leaves them vulnerable, and it takes a considerable amount of magic to rejoin the pieces.

Papyrus has never given the process much thought, but he knows instinctively that separating the spinal column is dangerous. He's not even sure how his brother is still managing to hold together; he'd have thought his lower half might just shatter into its individual pieces, if not dust completely. The thought jolts him back to his senses, and he forces himself to tear his gaze away from his brother and towards the threat of the two unknown guards.

For a moment, he considers giving in to the blind fury that's been building inside him. It would feel so good to see his bones tear into their bodies, to make them suffer an equal measure of what Sans was feeling right now, but almost immediately the notion makes him feel ill. Papyrus has killed before, but he's never enjoyed it. At the same time, there are moments when he _has_ enjoyed Sans's pain – those exquisite, tender sensations he can wring from Sans's body in the midst of their intimacy – and he's always known there was a possibility for his tendencies to lead him down a far more dangerous path.

He refuses. Sans is still alive, for now, and as long as that remains the case Papyrus refuses to abandon the stringent tenants he has spent his entire life following. Instead, he forces himself to analyse the situation coldly, suppressing the immediate need for retribution.   

He needs to protect Sans, which means removing all possible threats. His immediate conviction is still that he has to kill: not just the guards but Greater Dog as well. There can be no witnesses if he chooses to intervene on his brother's behalf in guard business...but the moment he considers that he realises it would be pointless, because there is always the other eyes in the forest he can do nothing about. Alphys's cameras. He and the Royal Scientist may have a tentative understanding for now, but he maintains no illusions that she would help cover up his crimes if it didn't advantage her to do so. Turning him over to the Magistrate so Undyne could regain her position would be her ideal outcome, so he knows she can't be trusted.

The only alternative he has is to continue playing his role. The fearsome Captain of the Guard would not care for his weakling brother's injury, but at the same time it would be remiss of him to allow such a blatant challenge to his authority go unanswered. He can use this. The two guards are off-balance and still reeling from his casual show of violence. They're afraid of him now, and Papyrus has learned how to turn that fear to his advantage. 

His public persona comes to him so naturally it's almost a relief to let it take over, letting it swallow down his numbness and panic and replacing it with hardened resolve. He jabs Sans in the side with his heeled boot, applying a warning pressure to his ribs.

“Shut up, wretch!” he snarls loud enough to get his point across, and surprisingly Sans goes immediately quiet. It shouldn't shock him. Sans is always obedient and trusting, always following orders when Papyrus demands he do so, and yet this time Papyrus almost falters in his act. Guilt is a knife twisting in his soul, because his brother is suffering and the only way Papyrus can save him is with further cruelty.

It's despicable, but in this world there is no room for mercy.

“As you can see,” he says, his voice unsettlingly composed in the wake of Sans's agonised screaming, “my weakling of a brother can barely withstand even the mildest of punishments. You would be lucky to keep him alive long enough to face the Magistrate's court, so in the interests of justice it would be better for me to administer his punishment here in Snowdin.”

Sans is making weak, wheezing sounds into the snow, the pieces of his broken body twitching. Papyrus nonchalantly steps over him, approaching the two guards with a clawed hand outstretched. “Give me the warrant for his arrest. Afterwards, you may both return to your previous stations. Assure the Magistrate that the situation will be dealt with in full accordance with the law.”

It's almost amusing, watching the two unfortunate guards exchange a look of dismayed, conflicted uncertainty. Papyrus carefully commits their faces to memory. Though he prefers not to shed blood outright to vent his displeasure, there are plenty of dangerous missions reserved for guards who have fallen into disfavour. Papyrus will not forget these two next time he needs to sacrifice someone for the greater good. 

They hesitate a moment too long, and Papyrus allows his expression to darken. “Refusing a direct order from the Captain of the Royal Guard is _also_ an offence. Do not test my patience unless you would like like to be escorted to a jail cell in pieces along with my brother.”

The callous threat is enough to convince them. The reptilian guard steps forward, his posture hunched and subservient. He proffers up the rest of his documents with clumsy haste. “Sir!”

“Very good,” Papyrus concedes, although his voice is too flat to convey any sincere appreciation. He loosens his control over his magic by a few increments, letting the weight of his power thicken in the air. “You may also inform the Magistrate that any further attempts to subvert my authority _will not_ be tolerated. I will overlook this trespass only once. Leave, before I reconsider.”

His permission to retreat is all the motivation they need. Both guards are careful to give both Papyrus and Greater Dog a wide berth as they scramble up the path towards Waterfall as quickly as their heavy armour permits them. As they leave, Papyrus struggles fiercely with the temptation to renege on his lenience and fire stakes of bone into their unprotected backs, but as despicable as it is, they aren't the ones who damaged his brother. That offence falls solely on his own shoulders.

He turns back to Sans and, steeling himself, checks his brother.

SANS - ATK 1 DF 0

HP: 0.3/1

hurts hurts _hurts_ HURTSHURTS _ITHURTSSOMUCH_

He almost flinches from the underlying agony in the check. Sans is still now, and silent. His sockets are dark. Papyrus can't tell if he's unconscious or just in shock. It takes all his willpower not to gather up the broken pieces of his brother and rush him to the nearest healer, but he can't ignore the weight of the warrant in his hand. There is a process to be followed. Little expense is spared on the well-being of criminals, and he's painfully aware of the eyes of Alphys's cameras still watching his every move.

It's not irrational for him to need a moment to figure out how to proceed. He scrutinises Sans closely, trying to figure out whether it's even safe for Sans to be moved from his current position, and in the process his eyes fall on the strange circlet around his brother's vertebrae which has replaced Papyrus's own collar of ownership. His sockets widen as he recognises the device, suddenly understanding the cause of his brother's blank expressions and unprecedented fragility.

He kneels down in the snow and cautiously hooks his finger into the magic-suppression collar Sans is wearing. Even touching it sends a discomforting ache up his arm, and he moves quickly as he twists it around the circumference of Sans's neck, looking for any obvious clasp or buckle only to find no clear means of removing it. His brow furrows in consternation as he tries to recall what he knows about the devices. They haven't been in use for many years, and were only ever employed against the most heinous of criminals. He can't imagine why one would have been employed against Sans, whose carefully cultivated reputation was one of lazy harmlessness. Either the Magistrate knows more than they should, or perhaps they intend for Sans to die in custody. Sans's body won't last long with the collar in place, but Papyrus will need more time to study it in order to figure how to get it off.

Restraining his aggravation, Papyrus picks Sans up with as much care as he can afford without making it obvious. Sans has never been particularly heavy but right now he's practically weightless in Papyrus's arms. It's a terrifying feeling, knowing one careless move could crush Sans and leave him holding nothing more than dust. He cradles Sans to his chest, trying to support the severed length of his spine without touching it. There's a smear of odd, red liquid trailing from the end, but the snow seems to have coagulated it for the most part.

“Take his legs,” he orders Greater Dog gruffly, pinning his subordinate with his most fearsome glare. “If they are not intact by the time we reach town, I will personally see you reassigned to the most sweltering corner of Hotland.”

Greater Dog whines pitifully at the threat, moving to comply. Much to Papyrus's internal relief, the dog actually employs a great deal of care in lifting Sans's broken lower half from the snow. He rests Sans's hips into the armoured crook of his arm, also considerately avoiding the stunted end of the spine. He looks to Papyrus with an oddly mournful expression. Papyrus pretends not to see it.

“Let's go,” he orders, turning towards town with long, determined strides, carefully measured so as not to look rushed. Greater Dog follows meekly in his wake, while Sans lies in his arms, quiet and cold as as broken doll.


	3. Chapter 3

His screams are locked so tightly in his throat it feels as though they’re strangling him. Holding them back feels like staunching a bloody wound; trickles of agonised sound are seeping out in spite of his best efforts, but it feels like if he gave in and let the noise flow free he might just spend all of himself in a violent flood of noise before turning to dust. He chokes on his whimpers, face buried into Papyrus’s scarf, the fabric smothering his face in its familiar scent and texture.

“Don’t pass out,” Papyrus orders gruffly, and Sans wonders how he could possibly think Sans could manage to do so through the excruciating pain before realising that his body isn’t shuddering as fiercely as it first was. The pain isn’t diminishing, but he’s losing strength – probably going into shock. He tries to nod but between his twitching convulsions and the rough jostling of Papyrus carrying him, it’s not readily identifiable.

Papyrus doesn’t say anything else, but pressed up against his chest, Sans can feel the muffled panic that’s hidden beneath his brother’s outward calm. It’s nearly flattering to know his brother really cares so much it’s tearing at his soul, making it pound like a human heartbeat in a furious drum of determination.

Listening to it, Sans almost forgets his brother’s order and gives in to the temptation of unconsciousness only to be jolted harshly in his brother’s grasp. His body wrenches in a pained arch, braced for an attack only to realise the blurred white-cold of his surroundings are now wood-brown and marginally warmer. It smells like leather oil and dogs, so it must be the guardhouse. Sans whines in confusion – why is Papyrus taking him here and now home? – and barely manages to brace again as Papyrus shoulders open another door leading to his office.

“Put his legs on the table, then go gather the others,” Papyrus orders, and Sans finds himself being lowered with exquisite care onto the large desk where Papyrus normally attends to official matters. The wood beneath him is more battle-scarred than most members of the guard, bearing an undue number of nicks and scratches from its various predecessors. The hard surface is hell on his spine, and in spite of his best efforts he wails when Papyrus lays him back. The taller skeleton curses, his arm jerking like he’s going to hit Sans again, and he hates himself for flinching when he realises Papyrus is only pulling off his scarf so he can use the cloth to try and pad the area where his vertebrae ends in a severed stump.

Greater Dog whines, and Papyrus rounds on him with a surprisingly feral growl. “I will take care of this myself, now go!”

With a high-pitched yelp, the large canine flees in justified terror. Sans wishes he could do the same. Some part of him quails as Papyrus bends over him, keenly feeling his own helplessness and brokenness and patheticness and-

“Hush,” Papyrus murmurs once Greater Dog is gone, his voice soft again, quieting Sans’s involuntary keening. “It’s okay, Sans.”

Powerful, coaxing magic is pouring from his hands as he carefully lifts Sans’s t-shirt away from the stump of his spine. Sans tries to watch his brother’s expression, but Papyrus’s face is only an indistinguishable blur of white and black, like a crude, smeared image of reality. He reaches for something outside the span of Sans’s vision, and Sans gasps, feeling the distinctive impression of a grip on the other half of his spine – the one connected to his pelvis. Now that he’s paying attention, he can still feel the sensation of his lower half; dim but unnervingly tangible. He can feel his tailbone flat against the desk, and has to suck in a tight breath as Papyrus slides it across the wood by calculated fractions of an inch.

He’s trying to line Sans’s spine back up, Sans eventually realises. To fit him back together like a jigsaw puzzle. The hysterical thought almost provokes a laugh.

“Come on, Sans,” Papyrus hisses, his voice tight with effort. The magic he’s trying to pour into Sans’s body is coming off him in waves, warming the air, but Sans can’t feel any of it sinking in. The pain stays sharp, undiminishing.

“Come on, heal, damnit. You can pu-” Papyrus’s voice cracks harshly before he controls himself, “-pull yourself together.”

Sans snorts, or tries to, but the noise is too high and breathy. It sounds more like air slowly and pathetically deflating from a balloon. He tries to shoo his brother away since his attempt obviously isn’t working, but his arm barely lifts from the table before clattering down again, strengthless. Nevertheless, Papyrus is forced to stop less than a minute later, his posture almost crumbling before he catches himself on the edge of the table. He slams his gloved fist against it a moment later, snarling out, “Damnit!”

The blow makes the table rattle beneath Sans’s broken body, and he chokes back another sound of pain. He wants to grab his brother’s wrist, some instinct determined to urge Papyrus to take a moment and recover after that exhaustive healing attempt, but Papyrus is already moving again. He stalks over to the cabinet at the back of the room, rifling through it while Sans stares dazedly at the ceiling. His vision is swimming unpleasantly, forcing him to release the magic of his pupils before the vertigo makes him throw up.

“Sans!?”

Sans makes a small, ineffective groan that intensifies as Papyrus forces his head up, cradling Sans in the crook of his arm. The hard rim of a cup is pressed against his teeth.

“Drink,” Papyrus demands almost desperately.

Sans’s nasal cavity itching with the briny smell of sea tea. It’s a drink the Guard keeps on hand for quick healing and energy, something to get monsters back into the fight, but Sans has always found the taste unpleasant, especially when it hasn’t been heated first. Wearily, he opens his mouth, preparing for the gritty, salty flavor, but when Papyrus pours, the liquid falls right through Sans’s jaw.

“What-!?” Papyrus hisses in consternation, trying again, but where normally monster food would be immediately absorbed into Sans’s body after passing through his teeth, he can’t manage a single swallow. His tongue and throat refuse to appear, leaving the liquid to splash uselessly on his vertebrae and drip through onto the table.

“No, no, fuck, come on Sans, you need to drink, your HP-!”

The collar, he tries to say, but the sounds coming out of his mouth sound like someone’s put his voicebox through a wood chipping machine. It’s grating and distorted, gurgling slightly when Papyrus tries again to pour more of the sea tea down his throat to no effect.

“What?” Papyrus leans closer as if proximity will help him understand. At least he pulls the cup away, giving Sans space to jerk his chin up, baring his throat. The glint of unnatural metal finally catches Papyrus’s attention, and he curses again, setting the cup aside.

“This?” he asks, and Sans manages a shallow nod, holding still as Papyrus deftly spins the circlet on the narrow column of Sans’s throat. The bones directly beneath it feel especially sensitive, as if they’ve been scalded by something hot, and the discs of his spine feel loose when they move against each other.

“Where the hell did they get one of these?” Papyrus muses darkly, examining its surface. “No locks or clasps. There’s some magic here-”

He scratches at the surface with the tip of a claw. Sans can feel his brother’s magic trying to pry at the seals in the metal only to be rebuffed by a strong pulse of unusual but familiar magic.

“Boss monster magic,” Papyrus identifies sourly. It’s not surprising; Asgore would probably have been needed for the crafting of such a torturous device, and the force of his magic would be nearly unbreakable for most monsters.

Most. Not necessarily all…but Papyrus blatantly hesitates until Sans prompts him with a broken, inquisitive noise.

Papyrus reluctantly releases the collar. “I…can’t, brother. Trying to break the seal with force…without removing it from your neck, the backlash would most likely take the last of your HP.”

Sans feared as much. The collar isn’t coming off – not without the official release of whoever had demanded it in the first place. Someone in the magistrate’s office must really hate him, for sure.

Sans closes his sockets and focuses on his HP. It’s dipped down to 0.27, but seems to be holding against all odds. That’s…that’s still nearly a third of his maximum. It’s not terrible. Even if neither healing or food can get him stabilised, he can last a little longer despite his body being split in half. Papyrus won’t leave him like this.

Something scratches against the outside of the office door. Papyrus takes a moment to compose himself, flaring his power to dry the sweat off his bones and cover the musk of anxiety and stress.

“Enter!”

There’s an excitable scuffling of paws and soft yips. Sans does his best to lie still, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Normally he’s happy to trust that the dogs are loyal enough to his brother not to bother him, but he can also remember far too many times when they’ve seen him weakened, when their intent gazes turn hungry and he’s reminded that to them he’s nothing more than a tantalising pile of bones.

“Reporting for-”

“-duty, sir!”

There’s a flurry of interested snuffling. Sans’s nose isn’t as acute as any of the dogs, but even he can smell the sour notes of pain and the iron-taint of marrow his body is giving off. The ambience goes tense with the unspoken anticipation of violence.

“Is that your pet? Is he wounded?”

“Are there intruders? Who do we need to kill?”

“The intruders have been dealt with,” Papyrus says gruffly. “I have another matter of greater importance at hand. You two!”

“Yes sir!” Dogamy and Dogaressa speak in near perfect synchrony.

“The Royal Magistrate is attempting to undermine my authority here in Snowdin. I need you to go to New Home and investigate the charges they’ve laid against my brother. Try to get them revoked, or find out what steps need to be taken to resolve them. In particular, I need the release key for the magic suppression collar that was authorised for use against him.”

There’s a flare of disgruntled confusion at mentions of the collar. Sans feels uneasy, not being able to watch the dogs and judge their reactions, but his head is pounding so hard with pain and weakness he’s not sure he could re-ignite his pupils if he tried.

“What are the charges?” Dogaressa asks, impressively managing to convey only professional interest and not shameless curiosity. The Dogs aren’t always the most subtle of agents, but Dogamy and Dogaressa are the best of the lot, and most likely to stay focused on the task.

“I have the papers here,” Papyrus says, with a scuffle of sound as he pulls them out of his armor. Knowing his brother, he’d have memorised them already, so he readily turns them over to the dogs.

Sans can hear them muttering over the documents, some gratifyingly outraged huffs of ‘Trespassing!?’ and low snarls of dissatisfaction, but it’s getting harder to stay focused. His mind desperately wants to shut down, to spare him from the ceaseless agony shooting up his spine. As much as he desperately needs to know how soon he can expect to get the collar off, there’s really nothing he can contribute here and he’s so tired…

“Sans!”

Not even that rare note of worry in Papyrus’s voice can rouse him completely, but he does give a half-hearted grunt to acknowledge that he’s still barely awake.

“What about him, Boss?” Doggo asks.

Sans wonders if the faint note of sympathy he detects is only delirious wishful thinking. He knows the dogs tolerate him, mostly as an accessory of his brother, but that they appreciate him most of all when he’s being ground under Boss’s heel in a display of dominance and power. He’d almost have thought they’d be enjoying his current state, aside from the territorial irritation of having not been the one to cause Sans pain themselves.

The question seems to catch Papyrus off-guard, and there’s a stark pause where he must be considering his options. Some faint part of Sans hopes his brother will take him home. Papyrus could claim he’s keeping Sans under house arrest…but with the Magistrate’s accusation of favouritism fresh in mind he knows his brother can’t risk it.

“He’ll stay in the cells,” Papyrus declares, and despite expecting it, Sans feels his soul sink. “You’re on guard, and if he dusts under your watch I’ll deliver you to the capital in that collar and you can explain to the Magistrate yourself what happened.”

Doggo lets out a distressed whine followed by the eager affirmation that of course he would take care of it, no problem Boss, he was a good dog, a good boy, no one that moved would get past him.

“Good,” Papyrus says, already sounding distracted – almost disinterested. “I need to complete my daily rounds. I will return in a couple of hours. Don’t disappoint me.”

“No sir!” Doggo agrees fervently. Sans can feel the air being fanned by a furiously wagging tail.

His thoughts are so sluggish it actually takes him a moment to realise Papyrus is leaving – leaving! – but luckily he’s too slow to give in to the childish urge to call out to his brother before the jangle of belts and stern click of his footsteps recedes, followed by a slam of the door.

Greater Dog whines unhappily. Doggo lets out a warning growl, and there’s a quick exchange in canine huffs and barks that Sans can’t interpret before he feels a new shadow falling over him.

“Okay, pet. Boss wants you in the cell. Let’s go.”

If Doggo is expecting Sans to leap to his feet to obey, or forcibly crawl his way there under his own power, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. Sans’s can’t even breathe without agony shooting through him; moving is definitely beyond him.

Doggo seems to realise this after a moment as well, because he grumbles irritably before hesitantly putting his hands on Sans’s ribcage, fumbling a bit more than necessary due to his poor sight.

“I’m gonna lift you now, pet,” Doggo warns, but even the warning isn’t enough for Sans to properly brace himself for the unbearable strain of movement. He can tell Doggo’s trying to be careful, Boss’s threat ringing fresh in his mind, but while the dog has strength, he lacks finesse. When he pull Sans’s upper half into his arms, he accidentally squeezes the smaller skeleton’s ribs, causing a loud wail of pain and whittling down a few more fractions of HP.

“Shit! Shush, Pet, be quiet!” Doggo splutters in panic, awkwardly patting his back in a way absurdly similar to the motion one might use to calm a child after some sort of nightmare. The careless impact only sends more unpleasant shockwaves of pain down Sans’s spine, and he wheezes, choking out a sob into the thick matt of Doggo’s fur.

“Take his other half,” Doggo orders harriedly. Sans hears the metallic grind of Greater Dog’s armour as the large hound steps forward, and feels the strangely displaced pressure on his hips and legs as the rest of his body is gathered up.

The walk to the cells isn’t far, but it’s absolutely excruciating for Sans. Each step the dogs take sends further jolts of pain through his fractured body, and unlike Papyrus, Doggo doesn’t seem to know how to hold him comfortably. The awkward grip of his paws is too tight in some places, and unsupportive and slippery in others. It’s frankly a relief to reach the dark, squalid area of the barracks that hosts the small prison.

The temperature in this part of the barracks is several degrees colder. The barred windows are open to the elements, allowing an uncomfortable chill to assail any monsters unlucky enough to find themselves imprisoned. Sans has spent the occasional night in the cells for other reasons. In years past it was the occasional drunk-and-disorderly. Nowadays he occasionally gets shut away if his brother needs to make an example of someone. The walls and floor are made from a hard, magic-resistant stone, and the only comfort is a hard, iron bench crudely jutting from the wall. After some haphazard co-ordination, Doggo and Greater Dog manage to lay his pieces down on the bench in a semblance of wholeness.

“Here.”

His skull is carefully lifted, and thick cloth is placed beneath him to cushion his head against the hard bench. It smells like bones and aromatic spices; Papyrus’s scarf.

“Boss left this behind, so I guess he’s okay if it stays with you,” Doggo says uneasily, as if he’s already having second thoughts about it. His rough, calloused paw prods uncertainly against Sans’s forehead. “Good pet. Don’t dust, okay? Boss will be back soon.”

Under any other circumstances, Sans would find the poor attempt at consolation hilarious, but a part of him is actually pathetically grateful, especially for the scarf. As Doggo exits the cell, locking it behind him, Sans weakly turns his face into the worn red cloth and inhales deeply, trying to find strength in the lingering traces of his brother’s magic.

Papyrus will be back. Papyrus is working to keep them both safe. Sans will believe in him until the last of his HP ticks down and his broken body turns to dust on his brother’s scarf.

**Author's Note:**

> Still thirsty for more? I tend to post chapters first on my Tumblr, as well as headcanons about various parts of this universe. Come visit me at [askellie.tumblr.com](http://askellie.tumblr.com/)!


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